


Everything, Yourself and Home

by ithinkyourewonderful



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-16 11:23:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8100568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ithinkyourewonderful/pseuds/ithinkyourewonderful
Summary: Trying to make sense of the implosion that has become their relationship, Bernie leaves for secondment in the Ukraine and Serena is left to sort out the rubble of her life.





	1. Between Everything, Yourself and Home

**Author's Note:**

> AN: So this is one of those works I was shaky on during writing and I’m a firm believer of Henry Miller’s adage, “If you can’t make words fuck, don’t masturbate them!”. About half-way though writing this, spilled_notes posted their glorious ‘oh, you’re in my veins’, which is everything I’ve ever wanted this fic to be. If you haven’t already, please devour it as soon as possible. So I’m not certain why I’m posting it other than it seemed a waste not to.

Put an ocean and a river  
Between everything, yourself, and home

\- The National

* * *

"So, you think you, what you're gay?" Raf asks, eyes sparkling with humour.   
"Weren't you listening?"  
"Of course I was Serena, except I... well I didn't quite hear what the problem was."  
"I knew I shouldn't have said anything!" She sighs, pushing up off the desk they were sitting on in her office. It wasn’t always like this, was it? There was some normalcy to her life, a steady (if not a little boring) routine. She was happy in her life, and if not happy, content. Comfortable. This was madness. Everything in her life was madness since Bernie Wolfe entered it. 

"No! No! Come back here, come back, come back!" He pleads, tugging on her arm as he laughs. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He apologies as she settles back beside him, visibly upset. "It's just... ok, so, maybe you're just... play for both sides? You know, like a double agent?"  
"This isn't the bloody Cold War, Raf."  
"I know, what... what I'm trying to get is, what is upsetting you about this? It never seemed to bother you before when people thought you were gay."  
"Of course not. But it wasn't true then, was it?" She asks. "Unless they saw something I didn't see. And if I couldn't see it, how could they?" She sighs, struggling to find the words. "It's different when it might be true. When all those people, all those rumours…"  
"Ok, this is getting a little heavy. Let’s start with the basics.”  
“Which is?”  
“Have you kissed a girl?"  
"Yes." She responds, matter of fact.   
"And did you like it?"  
"Yes."   
"Well look at you Katy Perry." He teases, nudging her with his shoulder. "Ok, well have you kissed a man?" She shoots him a look. "Ok, well did you like it?"  
"Yes. I mean, I did. Do I still? I don't know."  
"Well, only one way to find out." He grins.   
"What? No!"  
“Yes! Purely in the name of science, of course."  
“Science. Of course." Serena laughs. But there's something in the way he's grinning at her. "Oh my god, you're serious aren't you?"  
"Of course I am. I don't offer to kiss all my colleagues, despite what you all say about me - don’t think I don’t know about the gossip, hmmmm… I'm kind of like a hero, you know." He's still smiling, a roguish gleam in his eye as he cocks his head towards her, and for some reason, she can't help herself - on the other side of this kiss lies her answer. 

And so she leans into his kiss. 

It's purely for science, she tells herself as their lips connect. It's not bad, as far as a snog between friends goes. It does everything it's supposed to, their lips press against each other and part... and then they both burst out in peals of laughter. "Ugh - this is beyond exasperating, I am entirely too old for this, Raf. That's it. I'm packing it in. Giving it all up. Address me as Sister Mary Serena, if anyone needs me, I'll be found at the nearest convent."  
"You? What about me? I'll be known as the man who turned Serena Campbell gay! Mankind will mourn the loss of such a vibrant, vivacious-"  
"You forgot sexy!"  
"I was getting to that! Sexy woman. But what is Man's loss is Woman's gain!" He concludes his impromptu toast. "To Serena Campbell," he holds up an imaginary glass, "Whatever she may be."  
"Here, here!" Serena cheers, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes. It had been so long since she'd laughed like that. In fact, she was hard pressed to recall the last time she laughed, period. She used to laugh with Bernie all the time, and now... well, perhaps they were right (whoever 'they' happened to be), sex does indeed ruin everything. Just the mere possibility of sex, the whiff of it and their friendship seemed to go out the window, replaced with some sort of awful imposter. 

“Did it help with anything?” Raf asks, noticing his friend's mood lighten.  
“Honestly?” Her face relaxes from the wide smile, “Not really. It’s not you. Honestly. You’re just not…” Serena’s heart skips at the thought…  
“Her?” He asks, his eyes move towards the blonde doctor walking past the windows towards the office door.  
“You’re entirely too clever for your own good, has anyone told you that before?” She asks, busying herself with getting up from the desk and burying her attentions in some already completed paperwork as Bernie enters.  
“Serena Campbell thinks I’m clever. You heard that, didn’t you, Dr. Wolfe?”  
“Sorry, what?” The other woman asks, distracted as she’s moving about the room, gathering her items.  
“Never mind. I’ll see you both later.” He heads out of the room, careful to close the door behind him.

Serena stands at her desk, watching the blonde whirl around her from the periphery of her vision, pretending to be engrossed in the latest efficiency reports. The energy in the room is charged - it always is lately, but this is different - it’s not quite hostile, but it’s…different. No longer playful, electric. This is somewhat aggressive. “You’re here late.” Serena finally murmurs, not raising her eyes from the papers in her hand. “Hanssen asked to see me. Have you seen my hoody?”  
“No. What did Henrik want?  
“Sure you haven’t seen it? It was here, I know it was.” The pile of miscellany on Bernie’s desk grows.  
“Well I’m not hiding it from you.” She absentmindedly snaps as she gathers the courage to look at the other woman, but something is wrong. Bernie is practically shaking, her skin pale, eyes glassy, her mood snappish. “You alright?”  
“Yes. No.” Bernie bends to check the drawers of her desk and then slams them in frustrations. “I will be when I find this damned thing.”  
“It’ll turn up - it’s probably in the locker room, or at your flat. Bernie -” Serena rounds the tables between them, “You don’t look like you’re alright.” In fact, she looks like the complete opposite - seeing her like this reminds her of that night, that kiss. “I’m fine, Serena. Why this sudden preoccupation with my appearance?” She tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.  
“Because it’s a very nice appearance, Bernie.” Serena takes a deep breath, screwing up every ounce of strength and British resolve. “Can we talk?”  
“Now?” Bernie asks, sorting through the contents of her desk.  
“Yes, now. We…we haven’t spoken in a while. What are you doing?” She reaches out a hand to still Bernie’s actions.  
“We’ve been busy?” She offers up unconvincingly, ignoring the question.  
“Have we though? Really? Because the Bernie I know, the Bernie I’m … fond of -”  
“Serena, please -”  
“Please,” Serena tightens her grasp for a moment on Bernie’s hand before releasing it. “I need - I just need to get this out now because if I don’t get this out now, I don’t know when and if I keep this in any more I just may burst. I know you said to put that behind us, and I tried. I really, really did. But I don’t want to. I don’t think I can.” She laughs suddenly, loudly to herself or at herself, rolling her eyes skyward. She wonders when she got this close to Bernie - were they always standing so close? “All I can think about is when can I kiss you again.” 

With this off her chest, she can finally look at Bernie, truly look at her. She looks magnificent in her hunter green blouse unbuttoned just enough to tease her with a glimpse of skin she’s aching to touch. Her hair is down and unruly and she truly loves when it’s like this - it makes her want to reach out and run her fingers through the strands, to clutch them like she had done once before. It had been so…soft. Soft was not a word she would have ever associated with Berenice Wolfe, but my god, was she soft, from her hair to her voice to her eyes and her lips… Her lips. Serena was hard pressed to try to remember the last time a kiss was so… delicious. “I’m so sorry, Bernie.” She whispers, her heart jack-hammering in her ears, her eyes fixated on the other woman’s mouth. She doesn’t know why she’s apologising. Is it because she’s waited so long? Because she can no longer help herself? Because she doesn’t know what she wants other than the woman before her? Her mind is screaming at her to stop, her heart is beating out of her chest, and all she knows is she wants the other woman so badly she can only lurch forward as if being pulled by some unseen force, some tendril of desire. They are so close, inches away from one another - but Bernie doesn’t move and Serena knows if she wants this, she’s going to have to be the one to act. And she wants it, she wants her so badly. So she closes her eyes and closes the distance between them, crashing their mouths together. It’s inelegant, yes, but it’s all she can muster right now. Serena clutches handfuls of the silky fabric of Bernie’s shirt but something is wrong. 

Something is so, so wrong. 

Bernie is standing stock still, her hands balled to her side, her lips unmoving. Oh god, oh god, oh god! How could she have gotten things so wrong? Every nerve in Serena’s body kicks into action and she practically jumps away from the other woman, realizing this is completely unwanted and unwarranted. “I am, so, so sorry Bernie. I just…”  
“It’s fine, Serena. Really.” Bernie drops her eye and grabs her satchel, stuffing it with all of her belongings.  
“What… What are you doing with all your things?”  
“I’m packing.”  
“Packing? Why? Where are you off to? Oh my god - is this because I kissed you back? Or again?”  
“No, not at all. Although, maybe we should both learn to read the room a little better eh?” The blonde mutters, closing up her bag. She begins to sift through the file folders on her desk, but gives up, “You’ll sort them out better than I can anyways,” She tosses the files back on the desk and grabs her coat.  
“Wait, where are you off to?” Serena’s belly clenches in fear watching the other woman. No matter the outcome of her disastrous and humiliating kiss, she can’t bear the thought of her… counterpart leaving her.  
“I’ve been seconded.”  
“Is that all?” Serena laughs with relief, “I thought it was serious. You terrified me. Where to?”  
“The Ukraine.”  
“I’m sorry, what?” Serena could’ve sworn Bernie said the Ukraine. As in the country currently in the midst of a civil war. Clearly this was getting to her. It must be. There’s no way Bernie said -  
“Kiev, to be specific.”  
“Just like that? No.” She shakes her head, laughing in an effort to calm herself, “No….”  
“Not just like that. They’ve asked before. I’ve said no.”  
“Then what changed?” She dreads hearing the answer, already knowing that no matter what Bernie says, it’s because of her. It’s because of them and it’s because of what has or has not happened between them.  
“I don’t know.” Bernie shrugs as slings her bag over her shoulder, as she grabs her coat from the rack. She tries to leave the room, but Serena has blocked her path.  
“For how long?”  
“One never knows with these things.” She tries to move to the door, but is barred once again by a determined Serena.  
“Why are you being like this Bernie? Like it’s nothing?”  
“It’s not nothing Serena. It is what it is. Not…not all of us are a bundle of emotions. Some of us just get on with what needs to be done.”  
“Bernie, please…” She feels the barb deep in her belly, but for the life of her, can’t understand why the other woman is hurting her like this. Hasn’t she done everything that Bernie needed and asked for? Didn’t she forgive her for her lies and infidelity? Didn’t she listen to every word about her divorce, her children? Didn’t she do everything in her power to make her laugh, make her smile, make her happy? Didn’t she kiss her? Didn’t she re-evaluate the whole of her existence to make room for Bernie? Wasn’t that enough? Judging by the look on her face - impartial and indifferent - it’s clearly not. Why was it never enough? Why was she never enough?

Serena’s so distracted that it takes a moment to realise Bernie has side-stepped her and made her way out of their office and into the hall so she follows a half-step behind. “When do you leave?”  
“Tomorrow.”  
“And you don’t know for how long?”  
“No.” Bernie rounds the corner and picks up her pace Serena is left scrambling to catch up behind her.  
“I could come and see you?” She can hear the desperation in her voice as she clutches Bernie. She can’t help herself.  
“No.”  
“We can meet halfway?” She begs. She hasn’t begged since Edward. She doesn’t know who she’s become reduced to - she only knows she has to do everything she can to keep Bernie from leaving Holby. From leaving her. “Stop. Please!” Bernie shakes the other woman’s hands off of her as she turns and all but runs away from the prying eyes of everyone. 

For two women who value their privacy, somehow this has managed to become all too much, too public, too exposed. Bernie pushes through the doors of the stairwell and takes the stairs down double-time, forcing her muscles to move, to try to match the pain she feels inside. It once would’ve broken her to see Serena Campbell beg. She once would’ve been unable to refuse the other woman anything in her power to give her. She once would’ve given anything to have the opportunity to kiss her, hold her, touch her and taste her. God, Bernie thinks, bursting through the doors of the hospital and into the cool, night air, how she had loved that woman once. 

Fuck the car, and fuck this city, and fuck this hospital and Hanssen and Serena Campbell and sleep and the tears streaming down her face.   
  
She would walk the eight kilometres home. 


	2. The Categorical Imperative

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Serena enjoys the nomenclature of things. She enjoys cataloguing them and organising them and arranging them just so. Labels and names mean something to her. They matter - maybe not to everyone else, but they matter to her. They make the unknown known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: A bit of profanity here and there. Sorry. Should’ve mentioned that earlier.

* * *

  


Serena remembers the day Bernie Wolfe broke her heart. You don’t forget something like that easily. It takes quite a lot of time and quite a lot of wine. Serena doesn’t know how much time. She doesn’t know how much wine. She’s not a quitter though so she keeps trying to discover just how much it’ll take.

She remembers watching Bernie run away from her, as if she could no longer stand to be near her or in her presence. She supposes it must be true - she ran across the continent just to get away from her. She remembers the slam of the stairwell door, the roar of the ward coming back to life around her. She remembers the heat of embarrassment as it flooded over every square inch of her until she was the same colour as her blouse. She remembers her blouse being buried at the bottom of the hamper - refusing to even touch it when she had to do laundry next. She remembers the deep breath she took. First one, then another and another and another until she can gather enough strength to steel her shoulders back and lift her head and make her way back their office. Her office. She remembers thinking that she had made enough of a public spectacle of herself for one day. She remembers finishing the bottle of wine alone in her office and waiting…she doesn’t know what she was waiting for but she waited and waited but nothing happened. The world didn’t end. Her heart didn’t stop beating, no matter how much it hurt. Her lungs didn’t stop expanding and contracting no matter how hard it was to breathe. Not matter how much she wanted everything to stop. And her fingers? Her fingers never stopped itching to feel Bernie beneath them. 

It wasn’t fair.

She doesn’t know if it was love. It hadn’t been long enough, deep enough to be love. They weren’t children - despite how childish they acted - and love that quickly was a childish interpretation of attraction. Love, real love wasn’t just passion and heat and excitement and sex but also boredom and dirty laundry and rainy Sundays and stressful shifts. But what they had had was the possibility of love, and given her history, that was more than enough to have given her hope. 

She carries on as best as she can though, despite the rumours, despite conversations stopping or changing the moment she enters a room. She keeps her head up and her eyes focused on something straight ahead. She finds however, that staff who never spoke to her now say hello in line for coffee, or sharing the lift. Dom has taken to popping round just to check in. Nobody ever speaks about the scene in the hall. No one asks about Bernie. No one does anything out of the ordinary and yet Serena questions everything. Every act, every word, every look is examined from every angle by the inquisitive brunette and she finds it so exhausting to live both under and as a microscope. Is this…what it’s like? What it’s going to be like from now on? No, it can’t be. It would drive a person mad. Every time she chastises herself for this level of navel gazing when there’s serious issues (like Fletch, like war, like Brexit and the fact that the one light has begun to blink on the dash of her car and she can’t be bothered to face it) somehow her mind comes back to…well herself. Is her hair too gay? ( _Well if it is, she refuses to grow it out - it takes entirely too long to style and is completely unflattering, well - as unflattering as anything can be on her. She’s fairly confidant she can still turn a head_ ). Is her shirt? ( _Do the gays wear flowy blouses? Can she call them the gays? Well regardless, they’ll pry her closetful of coloured blouses from her cold, dead hands - how else will she be able to show off her best assets and hide the creeping softness that has taken to appearing around the waists of her pants?_ ). Her shoes? ( _Well, she’ll give them that one_ ). Her attitude? ( _Well it’s not fair that assertive, confidant and intelligent women are labeled as such and it seems like damn good company to be a part of_ ). Is her failed marriage and her relationship with her mother and daughter somehow a result of hidden, suppressed homosexuality? ( _You know, strike that. Even after a bottle and half of shiraz, she won’t touch that question_ ).

She hasn’t said the words since she was in the room with a comatose Fletch. Lying in bed on a Tuesday morning, head surprisingly clear despite her best efforts to drown herself in wine the night before does she say them again. It’s not until she can say the words, out loud, sober, in the light of day instead of just thinking them over and over and over and over and over again does she begin to think it might be true. “Serena Campbell, Lesbian.” She whispers to herself, her index finger tapping unconsciously against her suprasternal notch. No, that doesn’t sound… right. She’s enjoyed sex with men. She’s desired and loved men before, wholly and romantically and with a hell of a lot of fun. Serena enjoys the nomenclature of things. She enjoys cataloguing them and organising them and arranging them just so. Labels and names mean something to her. They matter - maybe not to everyone else, but they matter to her. They make the unknown known. “Serena Campbell, bisexual.” She says. It gets the facts right, but not the truth. Not the heart of the matter. 

“Serena Campbell. Undecided.” She tries, curled onto her side, her voice a little louder, a little more resolute. It doesn’t unsettle her as much as the previous two - except she isn’t undecided. She’s decided on Bernie Wolfe. 

She’s never been so attracted to another woman as she has been to Bernie. 

She hasn’t been so attracted to another person as she has been to Bernie. 

She has examined it from every angle. There’s the comfort she both craves to receive and deliver from and to the other woman. A (mostly) platonic comfort that comes from being near the other woman - of running a hand across her shoulder, down her arm, squeezing her hand, sitting thigh to thigh. Then there’s the fierce competition and challenge she feels whenever the blonde raises her eyebrow just so, twists her lip into that half-smile - be it physical or intellectual. Then there’s the fun and the ease that once existed between them - she’s never had so much fun doing the most mundane things imaginable, even a late-night trip to the grocery store turned into an expedition of sorts. And once the possibility of something more was realised, once the touches were decoded, there was the gut-clenching desire. It was an all encompassing burn, slow and steady across the whole of her body accentuated with moments of pure lust. Sparks, lightening, jolts, electricity - none of the words did the sensation justice. She could just hear the other woman’s name nine times and be fine, and be struck so strongly at the tenth mention that her insides would twist, her body would ache and her mind would be overcome with such thoughts, such images that she couldn’t breathe for fear that she would moan out loud. She hadn’t felt lust, carnal and consuming in so long. Desire is tasteful, desire is mature and elegant, desire is flirting over candlelight at dinner and soft lighting and soft sounds and soft everything. Lust though, lust was different - it even sounds different. Lust was hard and sweaty and messy and loud. Lust was fucking in a car, or in the kitchen, or in the dark between buildings because you can’t wait. There are times she desires Bernie and then there are times she lusts after her and the thought fills her with shame. Not because Bernie was a woman but rather because she had read the other woman so wrong, because the other woman doesn’t want her in that manner, not anymore and perhaps not ever.

“Serena Campbell.” She tries again, rolling onto her back, “Just wants Bernie Wolfe.” There. That was as close to categorisation she was going to get to today. With that she rises and slips a familiar grey hoody over her pyjamas and gets ready to face her day.


	3. Night Time, Sympathise

* * *

She’s developed a sort of sense for people lurking at her doorway. Sometimes they pace, trying to galvanise themselves to face her. Sometimes they just hover and stand there and raise their hand to knock, but never quite make their hand move. She likes to make them suffer just a little bit - it makes them stronger, builds character and all that. Eventually she put them out of their misery, but not before making them stew just a little bit. Today’s victim is lucky - she doesn’t have the heart tonight to tease them, so when she notices a shadow on the floor from the periphery, she waves them in without raising her eyes from her computer screen. 

“Um, hi, Doctor Campbell.”  
“Cameron - hello.” She smiles up at him, a genuine smile. He reminds her of his mother, there’s a sorrow and a gentleness about them that can’t help but soften her towards them. “What can I do for you?”  
“I ah…mum said she had left a few things behind and wanted me to pick them up, get them out of your way.”  
“Ah, I see.” She returns her focus back to her screen, though for the life of her, she can’t remember what she was doing. “I think she left something under her desk, I’m not entirely certain.” She begins to type, though she’s fairly certain she’ll have to retype everything after Cameron leaves. “How is she doing? Your mother.”  
“She’s, well, in her element. New situation and all that. At least it’s not as long as her last tour.” He smiles, bending down to pick up the bag, neatly packed. He knows his mother well enough that she’d have chucked everything in a plastic bag and this was the work of the other woman. “And time difference isn’t too bad this time ‘round.”  
“Yes, two hours?” Serena responds without thinking.  
“Still -” He ignores Serena’s comment for her sake, “I suspect she’ll be in her immersion phase. Likely won’t hear too much from her for a fair bit while she adjusts.”  
“I doubt I’d have heard from her if she was in Stepney, let alone the Soviet bloc.” She raises her eyes and smiles weakly at the boy. 

Man, actually. 

He must’ve heard what happened and she’s suddenly touched by his actions. After all, this is her first go-round with someone who’s adult life has been punctuated by bouts of picking up and moving clear cross the globe, Cam and his sister have dealt with it their whole lives. His kindness causes her heart to twitch - she’s always caught off guard by the compassion of others. “Tell me, have you heard from your sister?”  
“Yeah, yeah - she’s actually coming by this weekend for dinner.”  
“That’s great - family, well, family can be hard to deal with but so very worthwhile.”  
“Do you have siblings? Brothers or sisters?”  
“Yes, I’m aware of the definition of siblings.” She quirks her lips and raises an eye, “I do. Did. Something out of Corrie Street though, I’m afraid. Anyways - I won’t keep you, have your self a good night.” She smiles at him before returning her attention back to her screen, fully aware at this point she’s keying in gibberish.  
“Yeah - you too.” He takes the bag in his hand and takes a deep breath. She can see by his shadow he’s still there. 

“Is there something else Cam?” She asks, peering back at him as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other nervously. He’s standing exactly where Bernie does when she’s afraid of her. He opens his mouth once or twice then finally speaks. “I took her to the airport. She was - I don't think I’ve seen her like that before. I don’t know what happened -”  
“But you’ve heard the rumours?” She watches him blush, “Don’t worry - it wasn’t nearly as salacious and scandalous as all that. I assure you.” She keeps a straight face as he chuckles.  
“She was really…” He thinks it over for a minute, “Hurt.”  
“Trouble is Cam, I don’t know what I did. I thought I was doing what she wanted. So there you have it.”  
“My mum is amazing, Dr. Campbell -”  
“Oh, come now, if we’re discussing my love life, certainly you can call me Serena?”  
“My mum is amazing, Serena. She’s smart and brave and clever and fun and she used to tell the best bedtime stories - sorry - ” He blushes, “But at some point, you start seeing your mum as something other than your mum, you know? When you see her as a person. And my mum is…well, she’s not good at a lot of other things. She gets frustrated easily. She needs a lot of patience. I think she likes to think she’s more independent than she actually is, you know?”  
“I’m learning.” Serena admits, letting out a long breath.  
“So I’ve got mum’s stuff,” His voice returns to his former confidence, “And I’m going home now - so, yeah."  
“Have a good night Cam. And thank you.”  
“You too Serena.” He smiles at her again - childlike and open, proud of having said what he needed to say - and then he’s gone.

She gets no real work done for the rest of the night.


	4. Still, You Are Nowhere in Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wanted nothing more than to collapse into darkness and wake up when every muscle stopped hurting. Except it never did. She would wake up after a few hours, her back sore, her shoulders rock hard, her calves near cramping and her heart… it was a muscle too and God, how it hurt.

  


* * *

  
Bernie’s heart clenches tight every time she has to check her phone. Every notification, every buzz in her pocket, every red badge that shows up on her mail or message icon sends her into a minor fit of cardiac arrest for fear that it’s Serena, except it never is. For twenty two days, it’s never Serena. It’s Facebook notifications and junk mail and updates from Cam but never Serena. 

Even Alex emails her a quick line to say she heard she’s back on the move. 

Alex who once made her so happy. Alex who was her whole world and who now only made her, well sad wasn’t the right word, was it? What a pedantic, simple word for an emotion that was once her whole reason for breathing. Her whole reason for waking in the morning and sleeping at night. Alex, who was her world is now nothing more than a word. Not a name of a fully formed person, but a word symbolising all the hurt and pain and damage she could inflict upon another human being.

Bernie the Bomb. Her father used to call her that, a nickname from childhood. Something about how messy she was at meals or something of the like… Who ever remembers how these things come about? It would crop up at the oddest times. When Marcus wanted to be particularly hurtful to her. While she tripped over something in her sty of a flat. When she obliterated the hearts of those misfortunate enough to care about her. She taps the bottom of her pack of cigarettes against her palm as she leans against the wall, concrete cool in the night air. She taps and taps and taps but doesn’t light it. It’s not that cigarettes have lost their appeal, it’s just that she realizes she can get almost the same relief just by standing outside holding them. A time out from life. A chance to think. Except when she got a chance to think, her body would twitch in a desire to return to work - work which would let her shut off her brain. Work which would put her in a dream like state where she wouldn’t need to think. 

There was no work now. 

Not at 5.45a. 

All was quiet on the ward, and even her paperwork was (mostly) complete and the training manuals and SOPs she had begun compiling were ahead of schedule. It’s amazing how much work you can get done when you run on minimal sleep. And it wasn’t that she didn’t want to sleep. She did. Oh Lord, how she did. She wanted nothing more than to collapse into darkness and wake up when every muscle stopped hurting. Except it never did. She would wake up after a few hours, her back sore, her shoulders rock hard, her calves near cramping and her heart… it was a muscle too and God, how it hurt. 

She would lie in the dark on her back, breathing deeply and slowly until she could calm herself down. Stop the racing in her heart and her mind. Her body aching for something it never had, someone it never knew. Still, she could recreate the sensation of the softness of Serena nestled against her as if it were real. She could feel Serena’s hair tickle her under her nose as she nudged her head down and brush her lips against her forehead. She could hear Serena murmur and stir. She would not wake but rather tighten the grip of her arm slung across Bernie’s waist. She knew, despite Serena’s independent posturing, she would be one of those people who sought out physical affection from a trusted few. Bernie knew she herself would sacrifice her own preference for breathing room if that’s what it took to comfort and please the woman, even if she never knew. She and Alex very rarely had the chance to sleep together - just sleep - the chance of someone bursting in for an emergency too great to risk. Rather they would walk endlessly in their bunks until one or the other fell asleep. 

Alex.

Serena.

Alex.

God, Alex. Alex who was a good person. Too good for her. Too good for this wreckage of humanity that she’s become. No, that she always was. Who else could be so fickle as to love someone so wholly and then do nothing as that love becomes almost almost unrecognisable? Even as a child, she was mercurial. Equal parts quiet and contained then loud & explosive with energy and emotion. She always suspected her parents loved her, but didn’t particularly like her - their tow-haired daughter who ruined her dresses by playing in the mud, who splashed in puddles until her wellies overflowed. Who brought home dead animals and couldn’t understand why she couldn’t make them well again no matter how much gauze and love she applied. Marcus had helped, so had the kids - but never for long. Never for good. Another entry in the long list of people she had disappointed. 

She’s awoken from her state by one of the nurses with a gentle touch on her forearm. Ana’s pretty - brown hair in a bun, blue eyes that shine and always with a ready smile for her. Her accented English so gentle and soothing, that at any other point in her life she would’ve been smitten with her. As it is, there’s no room for another woman, another chance at heartbreak, so with a smile of her own, she shakes herself from her stupor and thanks her for letting her know the next doctor is in. A moment hangs between them, eyes speaking more than words, and then it passes and Ana shrugs softly and turns to walk away, leaving Bernie to contemplate the exchange before returning to the building to hand off the ward.

* * *

She cannot seem to shake off this mood, this introspection, as she walks home, collar of her camel coloured coat turned up. Bernie the Bomb. Bernie the Bomb. Bernie the Bomb. The words keep repeating, echoing about in her head as she wanders home in the half-light of morning. Something about the words didn't fit right. Didn’t sit right. Bombs are manmade devices for destruction. She is more of a natural disaster - created solely by wind and fire and pressure. She is more akin to a tornado. A hurricane. Sweeping in and destroying everything and everyone just by being. Entirely without malice. It’s simply her nature. She knows no other way to be. She doesn’t know how to exist with others without hurting them. 

Alex. Serena. Marcus. Her children. 

A mantra.

Alex. Serena. Marcus. Her children. 

She doesn’t regret her children but she often wonders if she was selfish in having them, knowing what she knows about herself, even back then. Knowing her fear of them. Her propensity to ruin any and everything. She marvels how well they turned out (even if Charlotte won’t talk to her). As much of a shit Marcus was, he was a good father - much better than she was a mother - he gave them stability, reliability, routine, the very things she claims to want but make her itch, make her chafe. She palms her phone in pocket, contemplating pulling it out to text Cam, let him know she’s thinking of him, but she doesn’t want to risk waking him if he’s asleep. 

Sleep. 

God, that sounds good. She's tired to the bone. She didn't think she could be more exhausted, more worn down than she was after her surgery, after Alex, after her divorce. Turns out Marcus was right about one thing, she is her own worst enemy. If she was prone to analysis, she would say that perhaps she became a surgeon to put people back together people - atonement for the rest of her life. She’s getting maudlin again. She hates when she gets like this but can’t seem to stop herself. What choice did she have? Serena? No, that was s fool’s endeavour. Serena, passionate and headstrong and always so thoughtful - didn’t see how dangerous Bernie was? How could she not? How could she think there was any chance in this? Any future? How could Serena claim to love her, be in love with her and not see her for what she was?

She smiles at the family hustling outside to get to school, holding the door open for the harried mother before slipping past them and up towards her rented flat. Her rented flat which was much nicer than her current standard of living. She liked to point this fact out to herself daily, but never quite makes the commitment to find a new flat, or brighten hers up. She hangs up her coat, careful not to wrinkle it - it’s one of her favourite pieces after all. She turns the taps to start the shower, letting the water warm as she makes her way to the coffee maker in the kitchen and starting a fresh pot. She imagines what it would be like if Serena were here. If she had agreed to let Serena come visit. She imagines the coffee would be already made, the bed already warm. The blush and glow of fresh sleep over every inch of pale flesh. She tries to imagine it, but while she can conjure the feeling, the sensation, the light and the sounds, the actual woman remain hazy, just beyond reach. She wishes (not for the first time) that she took more time to look at Serena. Really look at her. Memorise the faint freckles. The lines around her eyes, her mouth, her hands. All that soppy stuff. She had aways been too afraid. What if someone had caught her? What if Serna had caught her? Now, sipping her coffee in the kitchen she regrets her fear. She can only recall the other woman in broad strokes, not the details.

She sighs and takes her coffee with her to the shower where she shucks her clothes quickly and then steps into the shower. Despite her swagger, her bravado, the attitude Serena had once called ‘macho’, she had really only been with Alex. Intimately. And most of those encounters were rushed and hushed. They spoke at night of a time when they’d be free to explore in great detail the other, they spoke of countless days in beds with soft linens and black coffee, the light turning from dawn to golden to moonlight. They never got those days - not a single one. What must Serena be expecting from her in that department? Some sort of macho sex goddess stud? Sure, she had learned from Alex, quickly and enthusiastically, but could she…teach someone else? She knows Serena has the well-earned reputation for being a flirt, and more than a handful of her exploits have left her blushing but still… Letting the hot water wash over her, it terrifies her to think about all the things she won’t get to experience with Serena. Can she live without being curled into the other woman? Without feeling her skin on hers? Can she really live without the comfort and the softness that would come from within her arms?

The truth of the matter was, outside of being a surgeon (and a brilliant one at that), Berenice Wolfe was a fraud. She played at being a grown up (adulting is what Cam called it once in one of his moments of candor) but ran when it became too hard. She played house with Marcus. She pretended to be a mother. She imitated being a lover. She was like a Morrissey song come to life - perpetually fourteen, perpetually miserable, perpetually a Sunday night dreading the approaching school day. 

This wasn’t who she was, this wasn’t who she could be. She could smile. She could laugh. She could be happy. The problem was, it was usually at the side of the other woman. Even before she loved her, she could…just be around her. Listen to her sarcastic mutterings, her griping about this, that and the other, her attitude disguising the largest and most caring go hearts. Perhaps that was the problem. Could she be happy without Serena? 

Did she even deserve to be happy?

Alex. Serena. Marcus. Her children. 

A mantra.

Serena.

Her heart clenched tightly. She counted to five as it released itself. She already knowing how she will have to fall asleep. Just thinking her name made her belly twist and snarl with desire. She ached for the other woman. Well and truly ached. Deeper than bone and muscle. Down to her core. She would fight it as long as she could, but sometimes it was too much. Sometimes it was all she could do to find some release by her own hand in bed or in the shower. It was never Serena she thought of, that seemed too intrusive. Too vulgar. It was always some other nameless, faceless woman - an idea of a woman instead of a real one (She wondered if Serena could handle the realities of being in love with a woman? Making love to one? Having sex with one? Fucking one? Could she?). But it was always Serena’s name that broke the near silence of her heavy breathing. It was always imagining Serena’s touch and Serena’s sounds that pushed her over the edge. 

It was always Serena’s name she called out as she came.

Her body feels off - her limbs too heavy, her head too light as she steps out of the shower and towels off. The sun streams into the flat and it warms her as she climbs into bed. Nothing feels right except for Serena’s name hanging in the air, a sharp intake as Bernie’s body clenches tight around her fingers, guilty whimper as she releases. 

Nothing feels right.


	5. Far from God and Close to None

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay - it seems real life managed to sneak up on me and I am definitely not complaining.
> 
> Rated T for language...

* * *

  
“So…” He begins, hoping he can steer the conversation in the right direction.  
“You’re so transparent. Spit it out.”  
“Spit what out?” Cam asks his sister nervously as he steals a chip off her her plate.  
“Whatever it is you want to ask.” Charlotte answers, slapping his hand. “You always do this awkward little ‘so…’ thing. So…so what? Oh God, tell me you’re not coming out of the closet too, are you?” She asks, only half-joking.  
“No. Not at this current juncture in life, Cee.”  
“That’s hardly reassuring.” She raises an eyebrow before taking a sip of her cider.  
“Would you love me any less?”  
“No, but I’d definitely stop bringing my boyfriends around. You know you have the looks in this family.”  
“And the brains, so what does that leave you with?” He laughs, reaching for another chip only to be fended off by her fork.  
“I’m certain a fork in your hand will delay your brilliant surgical career. Do you really want to risk it?” She threatens.  
“Yep!” He uses his other hand to grab a fistful and deposits them on top of his salad where he begins to pick at them.  
“So…what are you trying to ask me? This about mum and that runner she did to Latvia or something?”  
“No. Yes. Not quite.”  
“She’s not convinced you to run off to a war zone is she?”  
“No.”  
“Good - I need one sane family member and it looks like you’re the closest thing I have.”  
“I love you too.” He teases. “No, I was going to ask what you thought of Serena?”  
“Serena? The brunette? Cam, she’s too old for you! What about the other one, kinda quiet-ish? Maureen?”  
“Morven.”  
“Morven. She seemed nice. She seemed younger than menopause. She seemed straight.”  
“Why … do you say that?”  
“Oh God - is she mum’s new girlfriend? Was this a set up or something?”  
“No, no! No! No on all counts.” He’s quick to answer, not wanting to face the wrath of his stubborn sister, her disposition and rage all their father. “But if she were? I mean, to be mum’s new girlfriend?”  
“I wouldn’t care.” She responds rather blankly.  
“That’s a lie.”  
“No, it’s not.” She sighed. “Listen, I get it. You’ve always been ‘mummy’s precious treasure’”  
“Shut up.”  
“No, it’s true. You’ve always been her favourite. You favour her. You act like her. You’ve always wanted to please her and make her happy. You’ve never seen her for what she is.”  
“What is she?”  
“She’s a fucking liar.”  
“What is it with the gay thing?”  
“It’s not the ‘gay thing’, Cam.  It’s never been about the ‘gay thing’!”  Her voice rises, but she doesn’t care.  “Let her fuck half the women in her Majesty’s Army - good for her!  Maybe then she’d stop being a right miserable bitch. It’s the ‘lying thing’. It’s about her saying she would always love us, she would always be there, and then she leaves. Every time she leaves us. It didn’t matter if we were sick, or had a football game, or a dance recital. She doesn’t love us. If she did, she wouldn't have left.”  
“It was her job!”  
“Then she could’ve gotten another fucking job, Cam. She’s a doctor, not an astronaut! She left us because she wanted to. Let someone else dig ditches in Botswana or whatever the fuck she was doing.”  
“Hospitals in Afghanistan.”  
“Whatever. The point is, she’s never there when you need her. She always promises something and then she bolts. She doesn’t fucking care about us Cam. Not about Dad. Not about me. Not about Serenity, or whatever the fuck her name was, and certainly not about you. So all this work you’re putting in to playing fucking doctor, I hope it’s fucking worth it. I hope you fucking love being wrist deep in guts and blood because she’s not going to stay for you, no matter how perfect you are.” She takes pause, ready to launch into another rant against their mother but she sees her brother and the look on his face. 

He’s always idolised their mother. 

He’s also always believed in happy endings. In Happily Ever After. In the Fairies and magic and their mother and her stories. Even when they were children, he would believe her when she said this would be her last deployment. That she’ll settle down after this one last trip. It was always one last trip. Charlotte however learned quickly. She learned to look for the truth of the matter. To look for what could harm her brother and to protect him from it. Even if that was their mother. Especially if that was their mother.

“You know it’s not us, right?” She says softly, pushing her chips towards him. “It’s something inside of her and we can’t fix her.”  
“So she has to stay broken forever?”  
“Don’t be dense. I know you’re smarter than that.” She snaps at him, in the way that you can only snap at someone you love so very completely. “You can’t love someone who doesn’t want to be loved Cam.”

* * *

Long after Charlotte leaves, Cam makes his way back at Albie’s, but can’t seem to find Serena in the much larger, much rowdier crowd. He doesn’t know why, but he wants to talk to someone, anyone, who can can counter his sister’s words. “Cam! You came back!” Raf claps him on the back, half-shouting from the din in the bar, “ ‘nother round? Where’s your sister?”  
“Back home. Listen - is Serena around?”  
“Serena? I saw her… Morven!” He calls to the woman leaning on the bar watching her drinks get poured.  
“Yeah?”  
“You seen Serena?”  
“Back corner with Ric. Hey Cam!” She smiles towards him. She was really rather pretty, if not a little intimidating.  
“Back corner with Ric.” Raf repeats.  
“Thanks man.” Cam smiles as he makes his way through the bodies.

He finds her, shoulder to shoulder with Dr. Griffin, their heads bowed together over their glasses, shouting their secrets, confidant that no one could pick their words out from all the others around them. There was something about them, an ease that didn’t sit well with Cam. He almost felt like he was intruding. Maybe Serena had moved on. He wouldn’t blame her. He’d heard all about it from one of the nurses before she realised whose son he was. This was stupid. He was stupid and Cee was right, mum brought this all on herself. It would serve her right if the other woman moved on, if they all moved on. His cheeks burned bright as he turned to leave, but as soon as he did, he heard Serena call his name, and resigned, he took a breath and turned back to their table. “Cam - welcome back! Pull up a chair!” She lifts her purse off of one of the chairs at their table and motions for him. “Cam, this is Ric Griffin, clinical lead on Keller. Ric, this is Cam Wolfe, one of our F1s.” Introductions made and hands shaken, Cam reluctantly joins them at the table.  
“Cam Wolfe… Like…” Ric doesn’t finish the question, merely raises his brow at Serena, who has taken a sudden and all encompassing interest in the wine glass.  
“Dr. Wolfe is my mother, yes.” Cam answers, addressing the lingering question.  
“Your mother and Ric have had…a few run ins.” She explains, not quite looking at either of them.  
“A difference of opinion, philosophy and technique.” Ric corrects. “Still, hell of a doctor.”  
“Well Cam will be too once we get through with him. What brought you back? I thought you were out with your sister for dinner?”  
“Yeah, we…we finished early.” Cam rubbed the back of his neck.  
“You know, I think I’m going to get another drink.” Ric rises, sensing the young man’s discomfort. “Serena? Cam? Can I …?”  
“No thanks, Ric.”  
“No, thank you Dr. Griffin.” Cam catches the brief look between the two doctors before Ric walks away.  
“Have you and Dr. Griffin been friends long?” Cam asks, looking down at his hands nervously shredding a napkin.  
“I wouldn’t say we’re friends, but we’re something. Does that make sense? Maybe we are friends. I don’t know.” She smiles at him and places a hand on his, calming him. Steadying him. “What would you like Cameron?” She doesn’t say these words unkindly. Rather, he almost breaks at how much sincerity there is in them. How much genuine affection she has for him. No wonder people like her, respect her. No wonder his mother was all but condemned after whatever happened weeks ago. 

No wonder his mother fell for her. 

“Can we talk?” He asks, his voice barely audible in the bar. She nods and squeezes his hand, before gathering her purse and coat.

* * *

Cam ends up driving them to her house. She lives in a real house - she lives in a home. He wonders briefly what Christmas would be like here, as opposed to… he tries to think where he’d spend Christmas this year, but can’t. He can always pick up a shift at the hospital, he supposes. He’s so lost in thought he doesn’t notice when Serena opens the door and kicks off her shoes, hanging her coat in the closet and then motioning for him. “Sorry, haven’t had a chance to tidy.” She speaks softly. “My nephew’s asleep upstairs, so let’s go into the kitchen?” Her house is…so unlike his. Serena has more possessions in the front room than his mother owned in her adult life, likely. She switches lights on and off, nervously touches things, straightening them, tucking them under, popping them in their right place as she leads the way, leaving him to trail behind her. She sets the kettle on stove, pulls down some mugs, a tin which she opened and set in front of him, causing him to smile. Chocolate Hobnobs. 

They don’t speak as she moves around, and he sits at the island, watching her. 

It’s not as awkward as he would expect it to be. It reminds him of being 14 again, waiting for a friend at their house before they leave again. It’s a familiar feeling. Finally with tea made and biscuits before them, Serena joins him across the island. “Thanks for inviting me.” Cam finally speaks, taking a biscuit, snapping it in half and then dunking in his tea. He doesn’t miss the slight smile across her face. “My daughter used to do that.” She explains.  
“You have kids?”  
“One. Ellie, she’s … well she’s about your age I suppose. And Jason… So two? I don’t know.” She shrugs.  
“Your nephew?”  
“My nephew. How was dinner with your sister?”  
“Good.” Now that he’s here, he doesn’t know what to say.  
“She seemed like a lovely girl. Clever.” She glances up at him as he snorts at the word. “Angry.”  
“Sometimes I wish I could get angry.”  
“Hmmmmm.” She takes a sip from her mug waiting for him to continue.  
“Charlotte… Charlotte said ‘You can’t love someone who doesn’t want to be loved.’ Do you believe that?”  
“I…am afraid I do.” She places her hand on his briefly.  
“Hmmmm.” He makes a nondescript noise as he ponders that. “If I can love someone, why can’t they accept that?”  
“We’re talking about your mother, I suppose?”  
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t - you’re my boss. And mum’s, well…”  
“You’re right, we probably shouldn’t, but we’re here and there’s biscuits and it’s late. I won’t presume to know what you and Charlotte and your father must’ve gone through.”  
“It’s just - what if she never stops running?” He asks, looking up at her. “What if mum never stops running away from me?”  
“You know that has nothing to do with you, right Cameron?”  
“Right.” He says weakly, looking down in his mug.  
“I mean it.” She grasps his hand tightly and peers at him until he can’t help but look up. “Your mother loves you both of you very much. She doesn’t mean to hurt you when she runs off she just -” She sighs. “I think your mother tries to run away from herself, but no matter where she goes, there she is.” She nudges the tin towards him. She has to pick her words carefully, modulate the tone so her rage at Bernie doesn’t come out. No longer just her rage at being abandoned, but her rage at Bernie’s selfishness hurting her children, for hurting herself. “Have you ever spoken to her about this?” She takes one look at him, eyes downcast at him mug, swirling his tea with another half a biscuit. “No, of course not. I think you should, Cameron. I think it’s time you spoke to your mother like the fine, intelligent, thoughtful man that you are.”  
“What if she leaves again?”  
“Then she leaves. That’s the interesting thing about humans. No matter how much pain we’re in. No matter how much damage we do to our hearts and our bodies, they keep beating, they keep fighting to stay alive. And the pain will lessen. Day by day.” She pats his hand and smiles, “Listen to me. I’ve clearly had too much wine - I only get philosophical when I’ve had too much.” She sees him still thinking over his issue, his mind never resting. Like mother, like son. “Cam, let’s say a patient comes in, their long term care is NFR. NFR means…”  
“Not for resuscitation.”  
“Correct. This chronic patient comes in, vitals all over. Their heart stops. What do you do?”  
“I…begin confirming that the heart has stopped. Brain functions are stopping. Confirm Patient is non-responsive by -”  
“So you don’t resuscitate?” She interrupts.  
“No. The patient has made their wishes clear.”  
“Even if you know you could save them if you just try harder?” She asks, cheeks blushing at the thought of how hard she had tried to convince the other woman not to run, not to leave her.  
“Even then.” He confirms.  
“Good. Pretty sure you can sort out the metaphor I was drawing, can’t you?”  
“Allusion.” He corrects automatically.  
“Hmmmm.” She raises an eyebrow and smiles at him. “At least on the rare occasion when your mother was right, she had the good graces to pretend be humble about it.”  
“Sorry.”  
“No you’re not.”  


When their conversation and the tea ends, she offers the guest room but he politely declines and washes both of their mugs. sShe kisses him on the forehead - her affection for him only in part because of his mother - and says good night to her at the door. She watches from the window as he makes his way to his car and drives off. She turns off the light and slowly drags her tired body upstairs. She files her rage and fury at Bernie away for the night - she will return to it when she has more time, more energy to deal with the collateral damage of Bernie’s casual cruelty.


End file.
